Killing You Softly
by hum-hum-humbug
Summary: In a moment of anger John says some things that might end it all. "No you're right. I'm incapable of love. I can't experience normal emotions," Sherlock says, his voice sounds choked. "What did the report say? 'What seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive.'" "I didn't mean what I said," John says,"please."
1. John

"Stop this."

Sherlock speaks from the doorway of the bedroom, sounding as resolute and demanding as ever. John pauses momentarily, his muscles quick to obey the command even if he is not, and then continues to fold and stuff clothes into his suitcase.

"I think the point of leaving is that I don't have to do everything that you say anymore," John says dryly, going for humor even in these final moments.

"Stay."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"John—"

"No," John repeats and he sounds sad even to his own ears. "I've made my decision Sherlock. I can't anymore…I'm not sure we're friends. I'm not sure we ever were. Friends don't _ruin each other's lives._"

He does not look up to see the look on Sherlock's face but he knows it will be composed into its cool mask. He can't bear to look into that cool and detached expression when he knows that his own eyes are revealing far too much.

"Don't be an idiot John. Of course we're friends—"

"You don't have friends, remember? You got it right the first time round. You're actually incapable of caring about anyone who isn't dead on a slab with a bunch of inexplicable stab wounds," John snaps as he shuffles through drawers.

"I do…care," Sherlock says quietly and John can see him shuffling awkwardly in the doorway. "I care about—I care about you."

"If you cared about me….damn it Sherlock, telling someone…ruining my relationship with the woman I was about to marry is not what you would have done if you cared. Ruining my life, taking everything apart, taking joy in pointing out you were right all along is not the same as _caring._"

"I though you'd want to know," Sherlock says, looking bewildered. "I thought it would be kinder for you to know—"

"You thought telling me that Mary had cheated on me a year ago _on my wedding day and in front of our friends and family _was a kind thing to do? You thought breaking up my wedding was a favor?"

"But he said 'if anyone has any reason these two should not be wed in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace'," Sherlock says earnestly. "I thought that is the time they set aside to raise objections."

There is infinite silence as John shoves some jumpers into his suitcase.

"I _do _care," Sherlock repeats, sounding lost and confused.

He knows it has cost Sherlock a lot to say it but he is feeling particularly vicious at the moment. He needs to destroy Sherlock. "You can't. High functioning sociopath, right?"

Low blow.

He can practically feel Sherlock flinch without turning around. John folds his blue and white buttoned down shirt into a neat square.

Sherlock emits a humorless laugh. "Yes, I suppose I deserved that. No I don't waste my time in routine displays of human affection, which some might identify as a necessary component of 'normal' social interaction, but surely you have deduced from the evidence presented to you thus far that I am not completely devoid of affection, especially—"

"What are classic sociopathic symptoms again? I remember vaguely from uni but I'm a little rusty. Maybe you can help. I seem to remember…pathological lying, elevated sense of self-importance, manipulation and cunning," John lists off the symptoms as he stuffs books into a second suitcase.

He knows he is being cruel.

It makes him feel alive.

"John—"

"Right on the mark so far, no?" John snaps back. "Superficial charm is another one. You do that well. What next? Lack of remorse. Oh you've got plenty of that. Callousness. Well, we have hoards of grieving widows who can attest to your callousness at a crime scene."

"Yes thank you for your diagnosis. I _have _heard it all before believe it or not," Sherlock snaps.

John is no longer listening. Cannot hear that Sherlock is begging him to stop with his tone.

"Need for stimulation. Were Cleckly and Hare looking you up when they wrote their list of symptoms? 'Need' is putting it mildly though. 'Craving' or 'murderous desire' for stimulation is more accurate," John goes on viciously.

His heart is breaking in his chest. He is hurting Sherlock. He is burning the bridge. He is destroying their friendship.

Good. If he doesn't burn the bridge now, he will be tempted to cross back.

"Unreliable. Impulsive. Secretive. Paranoid," John lists off as he stuffs items into the case and zips up his bags. He finally turns to face Sherlock. He can't see Sherlock's face. The detective is leaning heavily against the doorframe, his blue robe hanging lopsided on his shoulder and head bowed at an angle so that his curls half hide the severe lines of his lips and brows from sight.

"That's all of it, isn't it?" John bites.

"You should have paid better attention in your psychology class. You missed an important one," Sherlock says softly.

"Oh?

"Incapacity for love," Sherlock says with a small laugh, head still bowed as if praying. He sounds blank.

Oh, God he can't do this. He thought he would feel better if he hurt Sherlock but he can't go on. He has to stop this. It's not Sherlock's fault that he has just lost the love of his life, it's not Sherlock's fault that Mary had cheated. Yes, it's humiliating that Sherlock had told everyone at the wedding, that he didn't care what pain he was causing, that he didn't understand that John might have preferred not to know.

But all of that didn't mean he deserved what John was doing to him now.

"Sherlock. Look. I didn't mean—"

"You're right. You saw through it perfectly. I can't experience normal emotions," Sherlock says, his voice sounds choked. "What did the report say? 'What seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive.'"

"I didn't mean what I said," John says.

"Why shouldn't you?" Sherlock snaps at him, finally looking up. His eyes are wild and sharp, his face scrunched into an ugly expression. "I don't care. I can't care. I can feign it well enough though. You've seen me do it over and over. You've seen me fake tears or politeness for a case haven't you? You saw me do it on the rooftop of Bart's on the day—"

"Don't talk about that," John warns, raising his voice to match Sherlock.

"Why? So you can forget that you actually believed the tears and heartfelt confession?" Sherlock laughs, sounding manic. "So you can forget that you were taken in? You were never willing to see what everyone else saw plainly: a heartless sociopath. Well, now you see."

John doesn't know what to say to that so he takes both cases, one in each hand and heads out of the bedroom.

"Wait," Sherlock says before he can brush past him, resting a gentle hand on his elbow. "Go to Mary."

"What?" John blurts, genuinely surprised.

"I can see that you're going to Harry's."

John asks Sherlock how he knows with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock rolls his eyes affectionately. "Obvious John. You're taking the two small cases with you, they would both fit perfectly on the shelves of Harry's guest bedroom. You would have preferred to take the larger suitcase instead of taking two smaller ones. I saw you consider it briefly but that case wouldn't fit in the bedroom closet so you put it back under the bed."

John smiles.

"Go to Mary," Sherlock says. It looks like the words are killing him.

"Why?"

"Because she still loves you. She's always loved you. She never stopped loving you. What she did was…not out of desire. It was out of grief," Sherlock explains, looking down at his hands. "Go to her. Tell her that you love her. You will never have to doubt her again. She's never wanted anyone but you. She's been on the brink of telling you so many times now."

John doesn't ask Sherlock how he knows all of this. They linger together in the doorway.

"Out of grief?" John asks.

Sherlock looks uncomfortable. "She thought…she had mistakenly thought that you were in love with…that you didn't love her. She thought you were looking for a reason to leave her so she decided to sleep with…to cheat and then tell you about it, so you could leave her without feeling guilty. She was giving you a way out."

John's heart sinks. "What?!"

Sherlock beats on. "Naturally I knew what she had done immediately. I knew she had cheated on you the moment I saw her the next time she came over. I confronted her about it. She told me the truth. I corrected her mistake, reassured her that she was the one you really loved. She was devastated about what she had done. I told her to tell you everything and ask you to forgive her, warned her that you don't take well to being lied to," Sherlock says with a sad smile, leaning his head back against the doorframe. "I learned that one the hard way, I told her."

They are trapped in the doorframe. So close. Neither of them move.

"She no longer wanted to tell you. Not when she wanted to keep you," Sherlock said. "I told her that if she didn't tell you before the wedding, I would."

"You knew the whole time," John realizes. "You knew for a year and didn't say anything."

"It wasn't my secret to tell," Sherlock snaps. He looks furious. "Blame me for the rest of it, for everything. It is entirely my fault. But not this…I…don't blame me for keeping Mary's secret. Not when I had so much more to gain from divulging it."

What?

_Not when I had so much more to gain from divulging it._

John's eyes widen.

"What do you mean?"

"What?"

"What do you mean _you had much more to gain from divulging it_?" John demands, dropping both suitcases to the floor. They land with a loud clatter.

Sherlock looks blank. "Only the obvious. I knew it would end our friendship if you found out that I had kept another secret from you. It would be much more beneficial for me to tell you."

No, no. That's not it. For a moment it had sounded like it would have been beneficial for Sherlock to tell him because he wanted to break them up, to tell John Mary's secret and break them up because he wanted…because he wanted…

"That's not what you meant," John pleads, one hand flying of its own accord to Sherlock's shoulder to tangle into the material of his silk dressing gown.

"What else would I mean?" Sherlock says icily.

"Sherlock, what did you mean when you said that you told her _she was the one I really love_? Why would you not say _I told her that you love her_? Why would you say _she was the one I really loved_ as if she thought I loved someone else?"

Please. Please. Is there any hope? No. No. Perhaps. But. Please.

Sherlock shrugs coolly. Blank. "Did I make it sound that way? I was not aware. As you know the implications of romantic language are far beyond my areas of expertise. I only meant to say that I managed to successfully reassure her of your feelings for her."

"And how would you know what I feel?" John snaps.

Sherlock blinks wildly. "While I may be incapable of feeling love myself—"

What had he done? Had he actually convinced Sherlock that he didn't have a heart. Oh God. Had he ruined this? If he hadn't said that…hadn't called Sherlock a sociopath…

"—I am fully capable of recognizing its symptoms in others. When I came back from…uh, from my brief…hiatus, let us say, I noticed that you were much happier than before, your nightmares are almost gone, your limp completely gone, in moments I catch you smiling to yourself with sheer delight. The only variable that has changed is Mary. We can only draw the logical conclusion."

No. No. Sherlock. Please.

His fist tightens in the material of Sherlock's robe.

He wants to say: _Genius. And you see no other reason why I would be ecstatic after you got back?_

"Sherlock," he says instead. He chokes on the words. Then he chokes on tears. "Sherlock please. If what you said…if what you said about divulging Mary's secret, if there is anything more to the story, if there is anything you want to tell me, please say it now."

Both hands on Sherlock's shoulders now. Sherlock looks so sad, so frightened. How does he stop it? How does he fix this?

He is probably reading the whole thing wrong. Sherlock can't want him. Giving himself hope where there is none. Dangerous.

"There isn't anything," Sherlock chokes out. He looks near tears.

"Sherlock," he breathes again, begging. "You need to speak now or forever hold your peace because if I leave, if I walk out that door I will go to Mary and forgive her and marry her and never come back. I will never set foot through that door again. I warn you."

They are only inches apart. Trapped in their doorframe and between John's suitcases on the floor.

Sherlock is falling. John pins him up against the doorframe to keep him from sliding to the ground.

"I told you. There isn't anything," Sherlock sobs. "Leave now. Get out. Mary."

"I just want to know if…if…" It fades away.

Sherlock laughs bitterly and squirms against John's hold on his shoulder, thrashing, trying to get free. John holds him there. Sherlock pushes back.

"You wanted to know if what? You wanted to know that a heartless sociopath once briefly imagined himself in love with you? Is that what you wanted…to know that no one is immune to your inexplicable pull? All right, it's true then, it's true. I admit it. I imagined myself madly in love with you. I even imagined what it would be like if you loved me too. Go on laugh. I thought I was….I imagined that I could have...it's absurd. Like a fairytale: one day a man who doesn't have a heart imagines that he feels love. Isn't it disastrously humorous John?"

Sherlock has stopped fighting. He is slumped against the wall.

His face against Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't feel like laughing."

"Well I suppose it's not everyone's sense of humor," Sherlock says kindly, deflated, one hand wrapping itself around John in a friendly half-hug. He pats John on the back reassuringly. "You needn't worry about hurting me. All of my illusions have left me. I stand before you today, firmly and purely a creature of reason. Go on now. Leave."

"Sherlock. You idiot," he breathes against Sherlock's skin. He let's his head rest on fully on Sherlock's shoulder now. "I'm yours."

"No."

"If you had only said a word. If you'd said anything earlier…I would have told you that I've always been yours," he confesses, kissing Sherlock's shoulder.

"Stop it."

"You only need to say what you want. I'll stay if you want me still. It's your choice," John says against Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm yours."

"I don't want you."

"You love me." _I see it now._

"I never loved you, my love."

"And I love you too," John says.

"No. It's too late."

"You bastard. Just ask me _to stay_. Just tell me what you _want_."

"I want you to go to Mary. I want you to marry the woman you love and be happy. That's what I want."

He steps back to look into Sherlock's face.

"You mean it. You want me to go."

"Yes," Sherlock breathes. "I do. I want to pretend for a few minutes that I'm better than I am, that I am good enough to let you and Mary be happy, that I'm human."

"Of course you are human, you lunatic. Can't you see? I never meant any of—"

"I want you to leave John. Please go."

The look on Sherlock's face says it all. There is no room for negotiation. He has lost

God. Sherlock is beautiful.

No. No. No.

Make this stop.

It's too late.

If he hadn't called Sherlock a sociopath, if he had remained the only person in the world to believe in Sherlock, to not call him a freak, a heartless machine, a sociopath….

It's too late.

He leaves the doorframe. Gathers both cases from the floor.

"Goodbye Sherlock," he says, making for the door.

"John."

He turns around. Hopeful.

Sherlock is leaning, wrecked against their doorframe.

"Yes? Yes?" A little too eagerly. Calm down Watson. At ease.

"I know you said you won't ever come back but…" he trails off, struggling with the words. "But if in a few months, a few years even, you find yourself willing to come over for a tea or a murder, know that you and Mary are always welcome."

John and Mary.

It used to be John and Sherlock.

"Thank you," he says softly. _I love you. I wish you believed me. I wish I'd known. I wish I could fix it now._

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says. "I thought you should know before the wedding. I was mistaken. I can see now that many things are best left unsaid. I'm sorry."

John closes the door behind him.

Later he tells Mary that he knows why she did it. Sherlock has told him everything.

_I love you. I love you. It's always been you. Why would you ever doubt that Mary?_

_The way you looked after he came back, the way you walked, your smile…was I not supposed to think…._

_He was my friend. Nothing else._

_John. Will you ever forgive me? I know it's over…I know, it's not forgivable but…_

_I love you Mary._

Then as he takes Mary in his arms and lays her out on the bed so that her curls fan across the white sheets….

He can hear heartbeats that don't belong to Mary.

And then words that might haunt him forever:

_I admit it. I imagined myself madly in love with you._

_I imagined myself madly in love with __**you.**_

_I even imagined what it would be like if you loved me too._

_Go on… _

_LAUGH._

_Isn't it disastrously humorous John?_

He reaches over Mary's breasts to turn off the bedside lamp.

* * *

**A/N: Please read and review? I would love love some feedback. Epilogue to be up soon.**


	2. Mary

Mary takes care to hop over the stair that creaks but at this point it is mostly out of habit. Sherlock knows already that she is here. He always knows. He has probably known that she planned on coming even before she did.

She hears notes of Schumann's Violin Concerto drifting down into the hallway. She looks over her shoulder where Mrs. Hudson is standing at the foot of the stairs, her face scrunched up in worry. Mary shoots her a look that clearly asks: _has he been like this the whole time?_

Mrs. Hudson shrugs and nods at the same time. Mary squints and continues to walk up the stairs.

Shumann's notes drift down to meet her steps.

This last Concerto he had written at the height of Shumann's mental illness. He had written it towards the end, when his mind was folding in on itself with syphilis. His tongue paralyzed, his nerves disintegrating. This was the composition of a madman.

The music is mad too and for long stretches it seems to go nowhere at all. It seems to eat itself, drive itself to the edge of death.

It is the saddest piece of music ever written and to hear Sherlock play a madman's song is sadder still.

Mary pushes the door open without knocking. No need to announce her arrival when Sherlock knows perfectly well that she is there. The room is somehow greyer than she remembers it. It is as if the color has crept out of it and left it pale and ghostly.

The only thing that remains tragically and vividly alive in 221 B Baker Street is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Said monsieur is standing by the window and playing the saddest piece of music Mary has ever heard.

The sunlight that spotlights the tragic violinist is white instead of yellow. So white, white, white. White as Sherlock's pale skin. And there is dust in the light. So much dust.

There is dust everywhere she looks. _Eloquent, _Sherlock would say.

Dust: bits and pieces of humans-bits and pieces of John, Sherlock and Mary drifting in 221 B and dusting the surfaces.

White. White. Grdy.

There is too much white and gray in the room. Mary turns on one of the reading lamps and some yellow light bursts through the space.

Sherlock stops playing.

"That is rude."

He doesn't turn around.

"Keep playing," she says. "I'll make you some tea. When did you last eat?"

"Monday. What day is it today?"

"Wednesday. You'll east some toast."

"No."

"You will eat the toast."

Mary sets about to work in the kitchen. She takes out the nice china and the Earl Grey tea. She fishes out some cardamom and cinnamon from the back cabinet. She knows Sherlock loves the way she makes the tea. Honey, cinnamon, cardamom and milk.

As the electric kettle bubbles away, she rummages the cabinets for food. There is a packet of moldy bread, a jar of jam, some marmalade and stale biscuits.

In the fridge there is only a bag of sheep hearts, a carton of milk and a jar of pickles. Typical.

She opens the freezer and almost cries at the sight before her. There are series of Tupperware full of frozen food.

Neat stacks of Sherlock's favorite dishes lining the shelves.

All labeled in John's handwriting:

_Your favorite lasagna. Please eat while we're on the honeymoon._

_Pasta. EAT IT._

_Chicken curry. PLEASE EAT._

_Stir fry. I'll know if you don't eat while Mary and I are away._

She considers heating up the pasta but she feels that would pour salt on a fresh wound. She thinks the food will only read _John John John _if she sets it in front of Sherlock. So she fishes some frozen bread from the back of the freezer, defrosts it in the microwave (she knows she is ruining one of Sherlock's experiments when she fishes out a jar of human blood from the microwave but she doesn't care) and slathers jam and marmalade over it.

Shumann is still playing. Her heart constricts in her chest. _Sherlock stop stop._

The kettle's just boiled.

She throws journals and books off the coffee table and onto the floor with one swooping motion and lays the tea and jam and marmalade sandwiches on the table.

"Sit down," she commands. He nods reluctantly and lowers his violin, moving to sit on the couch. She takes the bow and violin from him and starts to play _Claire de Lune _as he starts to pour tea. She plays better than he does. It is the only thing she is better at and she knows this is what he is thinking when he frowns at her.

For him the violin is a way to let out pent-up frustration, for her-a classically trained violinist-it was what she had wanted to do with her life when she was a teenager, until she had given that up to be an author.

She smiles brightly. "Oh don't be like that," she chuckles, plowing on with another Debussy piece as he frowns. "You could have been the best violinist and composer of this generation. You could have been the best _anything _of this generation if you put your mind to it but you never put more than a half-assed effort into anything that wasn't deduction. So you can't be upset that I'm better at playing Debussy, when you've never particularly _tried _to be good at the violin."

Sherlock doesn't speak. He pours the milky cinnamon-y substance into his cup over a strainer.

"But you still play beautifully. At the level of some professionals. What it must be like to be so _good _at everything without trying," Mary muses softly as she plays, perches on the arm of the chair opposite Sherlock's.

Sherlock is still silent. She pours some tea for her as well. He stirs two teaspoons of sugar into his cup.

"And I had to stop you from playing Sherlock. That Schumann piece is too sad to bear," she whispered.

He stirs in two teaspoons of sugar for her as well. They take their tea and coffee the same way.

In fact they are more similar to each other than they are to John in every way. And for a moment, Mary muses that from the outside, the portrait of them in this sitting room is a beautiful one. They make a handsome couple. She in her pale blue dress, playing the violin with her pale curls falling on her shoulder. He in his dark suit and his black curls, sipping the tea that smells like cardamom. Both of them with pale eyes and angles and cheekbones and wry smiles. Weren't they a lovely couple?

Alas, there was John.

"_La fille aux cheveux de lin,_" Sherlock says.

"What?"

"What you're playing. Debussy's 'Girl with the Flaxen Hair'," Sherlock smiles as he stirs his tea and looks pointedly at Mary's own flaxen hair. "You, the beloved composition by the French prodigy. I, the crazed and forgotten concerto by a syphilis-ridden German. If I had any literary steak in me, I could write something on the subject. But you're a bestselling author Mary, why don't you write a short story about us?"

Mary sits the violin down.

"Eat," she commands sharply.

He looks her over as he takes a bite of toast.

"You finished your latest novel I see. Another bestseller?" Sherlock muses with a mouthful of toast.

"It's a decent book," Mary says.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Oh, no no. Not decent. It's the best you've written. You know it is."

She doesn't bother to ask how Sherlock knows this. She simply snorts and frowns.

"Sherlock. Eat your toast."

"Did he send you to make sure that I eat?"

Ah, so they were going to talk about John then?

"No. He doesn't talk about you," Mary tells him honestly, sips her tea. She stretches one leg onto the coffee table, lets the pale silk of her dress pool around her on the chair.

Sherlock nods, appreciating her honesty. "If you're here to yell about what happened at the wedding, save your breath. John has chastised me adequately for the both of you."

She sighs. "I'm not mad at you for that. I should have told him myself. My mistakes are not your fault."

"Aren't they though?"

_Yes, yes, they are Sherlock. If you didn't love my husband, if my husband didn't love you, I would never have cheated on him._

"I came because I miss you love," she says affectionately. Sherlock stiffens at the endearment: _love. _It has slipped out of her mouth before she can help it. In the weeks of Sherlock's absence -it's been two months since the wedding, how has it been two months?- she has realized something that she hadn't in the two years of knowing Sherlock. He had come to resemble something like a friend to her.

After all, Mary has never been like the rest of John's friends, like Scotland Yard or the clients who run away in fright. She has never asked John what everyone else has: _What do you see in him_? _Why are you friends with him?_

No. Mary sees what John sees in Sherlock. He is smart and charming and funny and, if he chooses to be, an absolute blast to be around.

Mary looks at Sherlock and thinks only this: _it is exceedingly easy to fall in love with this man._

They glare at each other silently. Sherlock finishes up a slice of toast hastily and jumps to his feet.

"Are you here to warn me away from your husband?" he says finally with a soft laugh.

"I'm here to beg you to come back," she says, choking up.

"No you're not. Why are you?"

"He's not the same without you." She is begging.

"Funny."

"I'm not the same without you either." She might as well drop to her knees.

"Oh please."

"We're not…we both need you. That's all we do Sherlock. We go about our days like a perfectly normal couple and all the while we are sitting there, both of us needing you. Him, because he's always needed you and me, because I need him to be…him again."

Sherlock goes perfectly still for several minutes. They both let the silence linger and stretch out. When he speaks again, his voice is strained.

"Just apologize to him. He will forgive you and everything will go back to normal. Please," she begs.

The corners of his lips form into one of those superior smirks.

"You think we haven't been speaking because I ruined your first attempt at matrimony?" he snorts. "You think we've been avoiding each other because he's still mad?"

"Why else then? Why else would he be so drawn in, so upset?"

He does not respond for several seconds.

"No reason Mary. No reason at all."

More silence stretches between them, like an elastic band being drawn taut from where he stands at the window to where she sits on the chair.

"I'm sorry you weren't there for the real wedding," she says. She means it.

"I don't care—"

"Fuck you," she yells, leaping to a stand, the teacup breaking into a million pieces at her feet. "Don't give me the sociopath bullshit. You care. You _fucking held me _as I cried."

He becomes stonier in the face of her emotions. "We don't talk about that night."

"You don't talk about that night. I'm going to talk about it," she says as she paces frantically around the living room. He is sitting in his chair like a statue. "You came to me looking torn to pieces and said you knew I had slept with Mike. Why had I done it? How could I do that to John? _He loves you so much, can't you see? And you love him too, so why did you sleep with a half-brained publisher Mary when you have the best man in all of London worshipping your every step._"

Her imitation of his clipped Oxbridge accent is passable.

"Mary," Sherlock warns, voice strained.

"I told you I did it because my boyfriend, the man I was in love with, was in love with you instead of being in love with _me_," Mary laughs hysterically.

"Stop. You don't know what you're talking about"

"And you said some really convincing things about how much John loves me. About all the ways in which you _see_ him being in love with me," Mary says. "And then I cried and cried and you held me so _beautifully _as I did, that no one would ever believe that you're heartless again if they saw the way you held me that night."

"I'm an exceptionally good actor."

"No you really aren't," Mary teases, stepping closer to him. He is looking down at his hands. She puts a finger to his chin, tilts it up to look into her face. "Your eyes give it all away."

They are almost green now, his grey grey eyes. And she wishes she was a better person and could let John go, could erase the sadness in Sherlock's eyes. But she can't. She needs John, loves John. John loves her. She just needs John and Sherlock to be friends again. But no more. She can't give John away completely.

She lets go of his chin and brushes a hand over his cheek. He tenses and then softens under the touch. As if he has never been caressed before.

_Oh, god, has he never been touched before? _No, no time for this Mary.

"Please just tell me," she says breathlessly, only centimeters from his face. She realizes that there are suddenly tears in her eyes.

She hadn't planned on breaking but she couldn't keep it in any longer. She had never planned on telling him the truth but it seems inevitable now

"I'm here because I need to know. Please just tell me. When do you plan on taking him away? Could you just tell me if you are going to show up one day and ask him to come back to you? I am so-_so tired _of wondering every day if it's going to be the day you change your mind and I lose him."

Sherlock is wide-eyed and genuinely shocked.

"Mary, don't be ridiculous—"

She is screaming now. "No Sherlock. I'm tired of both of us pretending all the time that this isn't happening, that nothing is wrong. Even the idiots at Scotland Yard can see it, did you know? The look at the three of us and think _what a joke._"

Sherlock smiles slightly. "I'm quite used to their ridicule. It doesn't matter."

"Not at you, idiot. They aren't laughing at you. They're laughing at John because he is so obviously in love with a man whom they believe to be incapable of any form of romantic attachment."

Sherlock's eyes widen a fraction, stung by the words.

"Except that's not true. Of course it's not. They don't know you like I do. You're so madly in love with him. And he's yours Sherlock. He lives you and breathes you and loves you. Every time he speaks he is saying your name. So what I want to know is why he's married to me. I just want to know why I'm being allowed to keep him," she screams and throws him bodily against the wall.

He doesn't fight and she watches with satisfaction as his elegant limbs make a loud noise as they make contact with the wall.

"How _long _will I be allowed to keep him Sherlock? How long before you want him back? I'm just tired of wondering every day, how long we have left. I am tired of the fear that creeps up on me every time I hear the doorbell or the phone or his text alert, knowing that three little words from you—really _any _words from you will change my life."

Her fists make contacts with his chest and she punches against them again and again. Wanting to break. To hurt.

He is completely still, looking at he as if for the first time.

"He's yours Mary," he says earnestly. "He's yours. He's yours."

He chants it over and over as if in prayer.

"You've promised yourself that you'll never take him," she realizes as she studies his pained expression. "Oh my god. That's it. That's why you're not speaking. It's you! You won't have him. You've chosen _now _to be a martyr Sherlock? Of all times."

He looks like she is tearing his limbs from his body.

"I'm not. I'm not. You idiot, don't you see? I'm not being a hero. I'm being a coward. I wouldn't be able to give him _anything _resembling a normal relationship. He would grow to resent me. He would leave. _Don't you see? _ I thought…I was stupid enough to believe that if I spoke at the wedding he'd come running back to me but I am not even capable of seeing when my actions might hurt him. I don't know how to love him Mary. I don't."

Again, silence. So much dust in the room, illuminated by the pale light.

They are surrounded by dust. Their skins floating in the air.

Mary holds Sherlock tightly against the wall. She doesn't want him to become dust.

"He _does _love you," he insists earnestly.

"He does love me," she sighs as she finally moves away from him. "But we aren't _us _without you Sherlock. It's like we don't know how to be us without you. Strange, isn't it? You've became a part of our relationship without us realizing it."

She makes for the door.

She has a sudden image, a day-dream, an elaborate one. She is cursed with having a writer's brain. A hundred little stories are always forming in her mind.

She sees the three of them in the flat she and John now share. It is dawn and they are just back from a case Sherlock has dragged them onto. She would brew coffee and make toast and eggs as John bandaged one of Sherlock's hands. It would have a deep gash on it from hand-to-hand combat with a bank robber who had a rather sharp knife handy. She would put heaps of food in front of them and kiss John on the cheek. _"Love, make sure Sherlock eats. He hasn't eaten since Monday!" _she would say.

_"You idiot! Eat or I'll cut up your other hand to match." _John would say and Sherlock would glare at her affectionately. She would give him a triumphant smile. Then John would push a plate in front of Sherlock and their hands would brush against each other as John shoved a fork in Sherlock's hand. They would pause and stare at each other with unspoken want.

Mary would see this as she was stirring in two teaspoons of sugar into Sherlock's coffee. It would make her sad as she stirred.

But then the moment would be gone and John would beam at her with love as she brought the coffee to the table.

"_It's seven in the morning. No use sleeping at this point,_" she would sigh. "_I'm going to take a bath._"

She would rush out of the kitchen but linger by the door for a minute or two, struggling not to breathe or cry, listening.

Then she would hear it.

"_Is there any reason you almost got yourself killed tonight?_" John would say in a gruff voice.

_"I knew you and Mary would find me. And I had the situation under control in any case," _Sherlock would reassure him.

"_Damn it Sherlock. There was no reason to chase after a bank robber on your own and unarmed!" _

"_That's my work John. The work is everything. You can't expect me to let criminals get away."_

_"All right. Yes. The work comes first. Can't the people who are about you come a close second? Can you bloody call for back-up for once in your life? Can you not run after murderous thieves on your own?"_

There would be a long stretch of silence.

"_Is there anything I can do to make you care about staying alive?_" John would say. This time his tone would be much huskier, much more tender. Mary would imagine him close to Sherlock. Were they about to kiss?

Mary would slink away to the end of the hall and turn on the water to draw a bath, to soak her fears in the searing heat of the tub until the water was lukewarm.

When she went back to the kitchen, they would be in the same seats they were in before. John would be working on his blog and Sherlock would be reading the paper while drinking his coffee and eating toast.

Something would be different. The air between them would be warmer, less tense.

Mary would be glad and anxious about the air at the same time. Then they would both look up at her as she took a seat and she would see the warmth in their eyes and know that she loved them both.

And neither she, nor John, nor Sherlock would be completely satisfied in the portrait she had painted. They would all _want _so much that they could not have.

They wouldn't be satisfied but they would be a happy little family.

She snaps out of her thoughts. She has to get him back. She has to fix this. They are meant to be together. All of them. She stops at the door.

He sees her pause.

"I wouldn't be able to love him the way…to give him…he deserves so much. I'm not," he insists.

She sighs, exasperated. "Well, he's miserable now without you. What do you propose we do about that?"

No response from him.

She looks over his shoulder. He is standing there in the dust, looking like he may very well be happier if he turned into little bits of skin.

"I am investigating a house-robbery in Cambridge tomorrow if you and John would care to join me. Old manuscripts stolen from a don's personal safe. No one else knew the safe combination and there is no sign of forced entry to the house. The police are quite out of their depth," Sherlock finally says.

Mary's face breaks into a ridiculously overjoyed grin.

"Oh Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock! Thank you. Thanks. Oh, yes. We will be here. What time are you leaving? On the eleven o'clock bus? We'll be here at ten thirty," she babbles happily. And then more softly: "He will be so happy to see you again."

He gives her a small smile and a nod, shoving his hands in his suit pockets, looking down at the floor.

He looks like a tragic hero all twisted and broken, standing there in the white and grey flat and the dust everywhere.

Dust. Dust. Dust. Bits and pieces of her and John and Sherlock wandering aimlessly in 221B.

She closes the door softly. As she floats down the stairs she hears him play The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.

She throws her head back and laughs softly.

* * *

**Epilogue turned into a chapter. There will be a third chapter titled "Sherlock" and the three chapters "John", "Mary" and "Sherlock" will make the story.**

**I cannot say how much I love and appreciate your reviews. I beg you to keep them coming!**


	3. Sherlock

When Sherlock was twelve he was diagnosed (among other things) with a rare case of gustatory synesthesia. Words had tastes. Mother tasted like sherbet. Mycroft tasted like overcooked veal. Deduction tasted like a rich Christmas pudding.

Sherlock had suppressed the sensations, had found it too distracting. He could not be objective about his deductions or impressions when he associated words with tastes. The dissociation was difficult to achieve. Synesthesia is completely involuntary and is not something one can or necessarily wants to "cure". But Sherlock had spent hours dissociating the words from tastes in his mind and in the end he had been successful in stripping tastes from words.

Except these words: love and death.

Two words he never cared to think about much. He had spent no time mulling them over in his head. He was not afraid of death, he was repulsed by love. He had no need for the words.

He had left the words alone.

Now as he opens the door to his best friend's Kensington flat he can taste death just as clearly as if he were chugging a bottle of vinegar. He chokes on it momentarily, unfamiliar with the vivid taste-memory in his mouth. This is something that has not happened to him since he purged himself of the sensation when he was seventeen.

_Death tastes like vinegar. _

_Vinegar. _

Gustatory synesthetic memories come from early childhood taste experiences.

_Vinegar._

Vinegar that Sherlock had mistaken for apple juice in the kitchen cabinet at his father's funeral when he was three and chugged.

_Death._

He stepped into the flat, careful to close the door behind him softly. The dark green wallpaper of the long hallway is littered with framed photographs: photographs of Mary's family, John and Harry, John and Mary laughing at a restaurant, John smiling at the camera while Sherlock scowls into the distance, wedding pictures….

Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary looking down from every inch of the wall.

Mary who was very very…

_Vinegar. _The very acid taste of vinegar burns his esophagus.

Sherlock makes his way to the kitchen swiftly and takes in every detail with a quick sweep of his eyes.

Two cups of cold and molding tea on the kitchen table_: John hasn't had the heart to clean Mary's cup._

Three dozen bouquets of garish flowers: _fans and publishers sending John flowers that he does not want to see._

Dust coating every surface: _no dusting since before the funeral. Eloquent._

A broken plate on the floor: _he had been in the kitchen when he got the call about Mary._

A copy of Mary's latest novel on the counter: _he had cried last night while reading it._

Car keys on the kitchen table: _he is upstairs. _

Sherlock knows that he must be in the study, he must be in the study. He can't stand to be in his old room. It smells too much like Mary. He is in the study. Maybe writing, maybe reading. Sherlock can't be sure which, what he does is not magic after all.

He goes to the bedroom and takes a suitcase out of the closet. He takes the big suitcase instead of taking the small ones. He wonders if John will remember that exchange from five years ago. When he left with the two suitcases because the big one would not have fit in Harry's closet. He wonders if John will remember that minute detail.

Sherlock remembers everything.

Sherlock tries not to look at Mary's clothes as he opens their large shared closet and digs out shirts and trousers for John. He folds them swiftly and arranges them quickly into the suitcase.

Then he walks to the other end of the hall to the study and knocks briefly, opens the door.

John is sitting in one of the large leather chairs, clutching a book that he is not reading. He's not sitting on the one Mary would sit at to write but the chair opposite. He doesn't raise his head as Sherlock walks in, suitcase in hand.

His hair is golden in the warm sunlight that streams through the light curtains. The lines of his face are tired but so so warm. So so John.

"Get up. We're going," Sherlock says gruffly.

John turns and looks at him with bloodshot eyes. The lines of his face soften slightly.

"Oh thank God," he whispers as their eyes meet. He jumps to his feet.

Suddenly Sherlock is being pulled into a clumsy hug.

"Where the _hell _have you been?" John grunts against his coat. Sherlock stands in shock for a minute before bringing one hand up and awkwardly patting John on the back.

"I wasn't sure you would want to see me. At least your behavior at the funeral suggested…"Sherlock stops talking, realizing that John has stiffened at the word _funeral._

But John breaks the embrace with a watery smile. "No Sherlock. The fact that I was not talking to anyone at my wife's funeral didn't mean I didn't want to see you, it meant I was _sad_."

"Oh."

They look at each other in silence.

"John—"

"Sherlock—"

They speak at the same time. They stop. A small chuckle.

"John, you can't stay here," Sherlock starts. "I tried to stay out of your hair for a week, to give you some space from…well, _me. _I'm not an expert on these things but it can't be good for you to stay here."

"Sherlock I—"

"No, let me finish. Of course you'll want to find your own flat. It can't be a permanent arrangement but I thought you might consent to come back to 221B while you look for a new place. Don't argue with me. Just come along."

"I—"

"Of course I can help you find a place. Or at least Mycroft can. I'm sure he will be much amused when I call him for a favor. It will be a few days at most before you can move out but—"

"Shut up you prat. I want to come. Of course I want to come," John says with a shaky laugh, still looking sad.

_Sad. _It tastes like sea salt. Sherlock has not tasted it in years but here it it tasting like a handful of sea salt in his mouth.

Emotions had always been the trickiest to strip of their taste. Sherlock understood them the least. They crept up on him sometimes.

_God John. What are you doing to me? Why are they all coming back?_

"I called you," John says miserably, taking the suitcase from Sherlock and sweeping past him out of the room. "I _called _you after the funeral, Sherlock," he mumbles again as he exits the room.

Sherlock's limbs are thick and heavy and slow. So unlike himself. By the time he makes it down the stairs and to the front door, John has already pulled on his shoes and his coat and is waiting for him.

They leave the flat wordlessly and hail a cab to 221B.

"She loved you," John says at some point during the ride. "Did you know that? She loved _you_ too. It's one of the reasons she was different from everyone else. She thought you were great."

Sherlock does not speak. There it is that word again: love. He does not remember what it used to taste like when he was a child but for a long time it has tasted like Mary's tea.

Love: _Cardamom. Cinnamon. Milk. Honey. Early Grey._

They arrive in Baker Street and go up without stopping to say hello to Mrs. Hudson. John dumps his suitcase by the sofa and collapses onto his usual chair, closes his eyes.

Sherlock must have been standing at the door for far too long, staring at John simply sitting in the living room, because John glares at him.

"What?" John snaps.

Sherlock smiles brightly at the sight of John being annoyed with him in their living room. _In their living room. John being annoyed with him in the living room. _Like it was a normal thing again.

"Nothing at all," he hums, hanging up his coat and scarf.

"Where were you? A case? Was it an interesting one?" John asks conversationally. Except it is not conversational at all. Sherlock observes.

Now that he has John safely confined in the walls of 221B, Sherlock allows himself to look more closely.

John's shoes: _hasn't left the house since the funeral._

His nails and his sleeve: _spilled a bottle of Mary's perfume in the hall, spent the whole morning scrubbing away the smell._

His eyes: _hasn't slept in three days._

The stain on his collar: _drinking too much coffee but not eating._

The creased outline of his phone not present on his pocket as it usually is but instead a faint echo of the keyboard against John's palms. He has been clutching it: _he missed me, he needed me, he tried to call me._

A miscalculation on Sherlock's part.

Sherlock turns on the kettle.

"No. Not a case. I told you. I mistakenly assumed that my company would not be welcome. I was trying to help you."

John's face is stormy. "Can you please tell me how my best friend's disappearance following my wife's death would be remotely helpful?"

Death: _vinegar vinegar. _Choking him. He cannot breathe.

"Please. Let's not. You know my attempts at being helpful almost always end up more than a _bit_ not-good. I came back for you. I didn't stay away for more than a week. I can never stay away, you know," he says in his best conciliatory tone.

John seems too exhausted to argue this. He hums softly and leans back in the chair. It's almost as if he never left…

_But Mary and sea salt and vinegar and her damned cardamom tea, _Sherlock has to remind himself. Thinks cannot go back to the way they were.

Sherlock shoves some biscuits onto a plate and throws a teabag into a cup of boiling water and sets it down next to John.

No he is not Mary. He cannot just make things delicious and comforting with a touch of his hands.

"You should sleep and eat," he suggests calmly as John cracks open an eye to watch him set down the plate. "Killing yourself won't bring her back."

He half expects John to snap at him for the callousness of the comment but he merely grunts and picks up a biscuit.

This might be worse than he thought.

He takes John's suitcase to the upstairs bedroom. The air in it is stale but the room has not changed at all and Sherlock has to suppress a grin at the thought of John inhabiting it once more, slamming the door in his face once more, being awoken by him in that bed for a case at dawn.

He has to remind himself: Mary. Things can't just go back to normal.

Mary has been dead for two weeks.

Mary. He feels an unfamiliar pang in his chest when he thinks of her name. His chest constrict at the thought of never seeing her again.

He makes his way back downstairs to find John looking over the papers on the coffee table. Damn damn damn. He'd forgotten to put them away. Damn. He is holding a two week old newspaper announcing the death of the famous author Mary Morstan. Mugged and stabbed. Case closed.

John looks up at him in reverence. "You weren't staying away from me—"

"John I can explain—"

"You were trying to see if the mugging could have been a planned murder. You couldn't stand to think that she was just killed like that. You wanted it to be a case, for there to be closure."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. John is staring at him with that look that he gives him when he's done something brilliant. No. Not even that. Something more. John is looking at him with so much warmth. So so much warmth.

His eyes are speaking: _Aha caught you. I knew you were human after all._

"I was sad at the funeral because I loved her," John declares.

"Thank you John. While my EQ may be significantly lower than most, even I can gather that much," Sherlock huffs, maintaining his distance from John.

"I wasn't talking to you at the funeral because I was sad. I was sad because I loved her but I also felt incredibly guilty," John explains looking pained.

"There is no need to explain—"

"Because when I got that call I was thinking of you, did you know that? I was just washing dishes in my house and bloody _thinking about _you and about the fact that I hadn't seen you since the last case, just a few days before. A lot of the time…I spent so much of the past eight years just…I was thinking of you. And when I got the call from the hospital, do you know what my first thought was?"

Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't want to know.

"I thought: _Please God, don't let him be dead. Please, anything but that. Anything but Sherlock being dead. I will give anything but please don't let the word at the other end of the line say that Sherlock is dead."_

John barks his laughter. Sherlock stares back at him, stunned.

He looks at this man, this man whom he has loved for the better part of the past nine years. He suddenly feels so old. They suddenly feel so old.

There had been a time when a mere praise from John would make his head spin, when the possibility of John loving him back was exhilarating and fascinating. When he had faked his death for John and then stayed alive to see him again.

There had been so much hope, so much violent disappointment and then so much hope that he could set things right just by being clever. And even when he had turned John away, had thought that they had lost their chance, there had been some sense of unfinished business, a sense of a lingering something. When Mary had turned up at his door, telling him that John was his and begging him to be their friend again…there had been hope even then.

Even in the past five years of being Mary and John's friend, watching them being happy together and taking them along on cases, even then there had been the slight hope…that he would leave…that he would somehow turn around back to him…

Now, standing here with no barriers to them being together he has never felt more hopeless: Mary is dead.

If John had left her, if Sherlock had taken him back, if Mary had let John go…if any of that had happened while she was alive then it would be a different story.

But here, now…suddenly all the bridges have been burned. There is no chance for them. They are so so old.

"I wanted you the whole time," John says with a shake of his head.

"I know."

"I would have left her for you even though I loved her. That's what's killing me."

"I know."

"You should have—god Sherlock, you should have."

"Yes."

"But I can't now, not when…But_ we_ can't now, do you see?" John gasps through clenched teeth, standing barefoot in the middle of their living room.

Their eyes are locked together. John is pleading, pleading with his eyes and Sherlock wants to tell him that he knows. He sees. He understands. Things could have been different for them, things could have. But for now they were mourning Mary and the memory of her made everything impossible. It made any thought of _them _impossible and blasphemous and wrong.

_They can't now that Mary is lying dead at their feet. Her vinegary taste would stain their mouths with every kiss. Her fragile body would follow them to bed every time._

Sherlock nods. "We can't."

They stare at each other for a long moment. And John is telling him with every breath that he loves him still. That is enough. Sherlock tries to tell him back but he doesn't think his breath can be so articulate as that.

He looks at John again, from his eyes to his lips and knows that this can be enough for now. They can't be together but John could still stay. Couldn't he?

"How long will you stay?" Sherlock asks coldly, preparing for the worst.

"I was hoping forever," John smiles. "If you'll have me."

Sherlock laughs. _If he'll have him? _Ridiculous. John has always been an idiot.

"We're out of milk," he says brightly, holding John's gaze. He says it as if he has just announced the cure to cancer. And then he laughs.

John laughs too and sits back in his chair. Sherlock takes his violin and goes to stand by the window. They are like actors in a play. Taking their marks, ready to perform the words and steps that they have performed a hundred times before. But every time, every performance, no matter how rehearsed feels fresh when they are together.

"Will it be enough?" John wonders out loud. "It won't be the same as before. We can't go back. We can't go forward either. Will it be enough?"

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John. He looks sad and salty but there is a hidden layer of warmth in his gaze now. Sherlock can practically taste the cinnamon and cardamom and Earl Grey in his mouth.

There was a time when this was not enough. When he would have pushed for more, begged for more, demanded more. When he was young and his love was impatient and violent.

Now it is a love that endured and suffered. He is happy to live with it like this. It should not be enough but it is.

"It will just have to be enough for now," he says easily. "I can't live without…I have come to view arrangement that keeps us apart as completely unacceptable."

John grins back. It is not as bright as it used to be but that it all right. That is all right. Sherlock will make it right again with mysteries and car chases and murders. Lots and lots of homicides. He will make John bright again little by little. And maybe one day…years and years in the future, maybe a decade from now, the wound will heal enough and Sherlock will kiss him one night as they walk back from Scotland Yard. There will be no cabs and they will walk in the cold and Sherlock will choose that night, of all nights, for no other reason than the fact that stars look pretty and the wound feels healed. The stars will be so bright in the London sky and he will… In fact he might even quote his lines from so many years ago: "_Beautiful isn't it?...doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."_

John will laugh at the old reference and Sherlock will push him against an icy building to knock the laugh out of him and kiss him and they will live happily ever after.

But for now, this is enough. They will grin at each other weakly and John will sit barefoot in his-in _their_- living room.

They are enough for now. Whatever they are. He puts his bow to the strings and starts to play The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.

"John," he says and for once he relishes the taste of milk and honey and cinnamon and Earl Grey in his mouth.

"Yes," John breathes as he drifts to sleep.

He plays _her_ song and knows without turning around that he has made John Watson fall asleep for the first time in three days.

It is enough. For now they will mourn Mary.

* * *

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